So I'm holding my own pity party here this weekend because I'm not going to the big national conference in LA. Waaah. I've said that I'm not going to wallow in being the only kidlit writer around who will be sitting home, but it's my blog and I'll cry if I want to. Everyone on the boards is talking about packing and sparkly costumes and where they are going to meet up. It's painful people. We decided a while ago that I wasn't going this year because of the expense and DH's travel schedule and while on the surface it was a very good and rational decision, I'm still bummed. All of the cool kids are going to the party and I have to stay home and babysit. Everyone except Debby G. who is going instead on a fabbo Italian anniversary trip. Whatever.
Next year will be the year. My MG will be almost ready to hit the stores and my YA will be up for auction. Or was that a pre-empt? Maybe I'll even be on a panel. Ah, yes, I can see it now. Save me a mojito.
On this date: In 1975, Jimmy Hoffa disappeared.